


Not-So-Silent Night

by sadistically_sweet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Bottom Greg Lestrade, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Diapers, Domestic Fluff, Dummies, Father Christmas has a sadistic sense of humor, Greg is a bit of a brat, Infantilism, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft is Sweet, Mycroft is a Softie, Non-Sexual Age Play, Spanking, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top Mycroft Holmes, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21916273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: An old story once said that Father Christmas tends to leave not coal, but switches in the stockings of naughty little boys and girls to find on Christmas morning.But, as someone in the Holmes household is soon to find out, it isn't always a switch.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 93





	Not-So-Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

> *Is written as a sequel to The Long (and Little) Halloween, but can be read as a standalone!

Greg Lestrade was awoken in his most favorite way, on one of his most favorite days of the year; by the faintest brush of his boyfriends’ lips over his temple, followed by a faint trace of musk from Mycroft’s aftershave. He took a deep breath and stretched, making his back pop in a fantastic way. Then he cracked open his eyes and smiled at the figure sitting on the side of the bed next to him. “Mornin’,” he mumbled, reaching out and rubbing his knuckles over Mycroft’s hip. 

Mycroft smiled back. “Morning. And Happy Christmas,” he said before leaning over, and kissing Greg again. On the lips, this time. 

Greg murmured a happy reply and let his lips linger there for a moment longer, before rolling onto his back and stretching again. Something about warm blankets and a cold morning, just...dunno, just makes you all cozy and stretchy. “Figured the boys would’a been up and bouncin’ in here before now,” he said, rubbing his leg with his foot like a content cricket. “What time is it?”

Mycroft hummed and stood up. “Close to seven. And John’s letting the baby sleep in a little longer,” he said, and patted Greg’s thigh through the blanket. “Which means we have just enough time to get dressed and have coffee made before he brings him down.”

“Aw.” Greg reached up and rubbed his hand over his face to clear away the last dregs of sleep-fog. “You couldn’t convince him last night to be Little, too?”

“Afraid not,” Mycroft called from their bathroom, where Greg could hear him turning on the tap and letting the water run warm for the shower. “He wanted to let Sherlock have this one, since Sherlock took care of him when they did their own private Christmas Eve.”

Greg moved his hand from one eye and peered out; “...They did?”

“The night before last, before they came here. Which is why it took an entire bottle of wine before he could hit his headspace.” Mycroft stepped out of the bathroom and leaned against the doorway, still smiling at Greg in that soft, warm way that made him feel...almost  _ disgustingly _ lovey-dovey. “We have them for the important one, and that’s all that matters. Water’s warm,” he said, before stepping back inside. 

Through the rapidly fogging mirror, Greg could see Mycroft slipping out of his robe, teasing him with one freckled shoulder before disappearing into the shower.

Greg grinned and, with only a little bit of loathing, tossed off the warm blankets before they could tempt him to stay in bed any longer. 

He had an even warmer, more welcoming shower waiting for him, after all. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Downstairs, Mycoft was the one to make sure that the doors to the sitting room were firmly shut and the doorknobs tied together with a huge, bright red ribbon with dangling jingle bells, to warn them of any lookie-loos that might try to sneak a peek while they were in the kitchen. 

Greg didn’t get a chance for one last peek before they were shut, but that’s okay...he and John had helped wrap a few last-minute presents last night, while Mycroft had finished stuffing the stockings. But the heat from the fireplace (and maybe a bit of the wine from dinner) had gotten to him,though, and he’d gone to bed soon after, leaving the two of them downstairs. 

Anyway...seeing the look on Sherlock’s face when they let him open the doors would be worth it. 

Fifteen minutes later, with the strong, heady smell of coffee (straight black for Greg, hazelnut creamer for Mycroft) filling the entire kitchen, Greg and Mycoft were both sitting at the table with their respective mugs when they heard the faint jingling of bells from across the hallway. They shared a knowing grin, and Mycroft called out, “Little boys who peek have to send their present back to Santa!” 

There was a pause, and then a sheepish-sounding voice called back; “Ah...it wasn’t the little one,” John said as he entered the kitchen with a bashful look on his face. And trailing behind him, being led by the hand, was a still-drowsy Sherlock in his brand-new Christmas pajamas. “So, uh...does that go for big boys too, then?”

Mycroft gave him a wry smile; “Doubly so!” he tsked, and held out his arms for the sleepy one shuffling over to him for a cuddle. He gathered Sherlock in his lap and kissed the top of his mussed curls, and his baby brother laid against his shoulder with a contented sigh. “The big boys should already know better!”

“Ah, ‘tis true,” John said, sounding appropriately chagrined at first, but then looked towards the counter; “Any coffee left??” he asked brightly. 

“Plenty,” Greg said, smiling and wiggling his fingers at Sherlock. “Someone slept like a log,” he chuckled. “Those new jammies look comfy!”

The two-piece set had been an early present for Christmas Eve--just something to keep the tyke distracted from getting too wound up with all the other presents piled under the tree. Mycroft had picked out the pajamas: a red and black plaid flannel set, with white lace along the leg and shirt cuffs, as well as the bottom hem of the top and along the neckline. Greg had picked out a small, stuffed gingerbread girl toy, with an adorable white frosting skirt and bow, and John had added in a Christmas story book about a family of field mice meeting a snowman, which they’d all cuddled on the couch and read together before getting the baby in bed. 

It had been a cozy evening...even considering that Sherlock had been more than a little toasted before the fire had been lit, just like Greg.

“Sure, the jammies, that’s it,” John said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Not the entire bottle of wine we plied him with.”

“Hush,” Mycroft said, swaying Sherlock in his lap. “Would you like some toast, pet?”

Sherlock shook his head as his glittery, ruby-red Christmas dummy bobbed slowly in his mouth.

John took a big gulp from his mug. “Changed him twice last night; didn’t stir a single bit.” 

That made Mycroft laugh. “Sooooo sleepy,” he cooed, patting the back of his little brother’s nappy; “...Perhaps too sleepy to open presents,” he added slyly. 

Sherlock sat up like a shot, his eyes bright; “P’esent’th??” he asked, eagerly rubbing the last bit of sleep away. “San’na??”

“Ye-es, Santa came!” Mycroft bounced him on his knee. “He said that the cookies were the best he’d had  _ all _ night, and that almond milk was a thoughtful choice!”

Sherlock, who’d been listening to his brother intently, clasped his hands together and started to beam...the corners of his mouth peeked out from behind his dummy, making the corners of his eyes crinkle in that shy way of his. 

“Santa said the cookies were a wee bit dry,” Greg teased, then quickly lifted his mug to his mouth to hide behind when Mycroft shot him a dirty look. “Nah, I’m kidding!” he assured the baby; “Gobbled them right up!”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at him as a silent warning before turning back to Sherlock, his smile back on his face. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you with some toast first?...maybe some cereal? Oh, porridge!”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust and shook his head. “Nn-nn! P’esen’th!”

“Of course; how could I have known that’s exactly what you’d say. Alright,” Mycroft said, scooting Sherlock off of his lap. “Let’s go see what Santa left.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  


It...was  _ perfect _ . Just as Greg had thought it would be. 

Sherlock, bouncing on his toes as he waited (somewhat patiently) for Mycroft to untie the ribbons holding the doors shut, and the look on his face as they were finally drawn open to reveal the lavish decorations that Mycroft had painstakingly put together...with a little help from Greg and John, of course. 

The room had been moderately decorated all month, actually, with the usual bits and bobs...the tree had been up at the first seasonally fashionable moment (both of the boys had helped decorate), as well as more ribbons of shimmering gold and silver bells and boughs of (faux) Holly all about the room. Not to mention Mycroft’s tiny Christmas Village models, with all of those tiny LED lights that mimicked flickering candles that, while he’d never,  _ ever _ admit it out loud, were Greg’s favorite bit of the whole thing.

But last night... _ oh _ , last night...Mycroft had gone all out and put the final touches on. 

The presents had been moved from all of their various hiding places and stacked beneath the tree, with any little pound shop items that hadn’t fit into the stockings hidden amongst them like a Christmas version of Easter eggs. Those same stockings were stuffed, full as can be, and hanging heavily from the fireplace...which also had two pairs of sooty boot prints carefully placed in front of it...one set facing out into the room, and the other set going back in. 

Sherlock had stood there in silent awe, his face lighting up brighter than any tree ever could. 

Then...he’d been set loose. 

It had been a spectacular flurry of flying paper, squeals of excitement and “F’ank yoooo!”s and chattering on about whatever toy or book or outfit had just been opened, followed by wonderfully squishy ‘thank you’ hugs.Then, after all of his own presents had been opened, Mycroft had granted Sherlock the position of being ‘Santa’s Helper’, and for the next half hour the little detective had been busy making trips back and forth to the tree as he passed out the rest of the presents...which also meant that he’d found the majority of the hidden trinkets. 

Being the endearing little twerp that he was, though, he was more than happy to share. 

At the end of it all, being the only baby (for the day, at least) meant that Sherlock had made out like a bandit with a small mountain of gifts, his favorites being the whole set of new Frozen dolls, and a large Winnie the Pooh plush in a bumblebee costume that had velcro in the back...and when you opened him up, you got smaller versions of all of Pooh’s friends, also dressed as little bees. 

By now, the commotion had died down, and Mycroft was busying himself by collecting all of the paper, bits of plastic, and empty boxes and wrappers into a rubbish bag while Greg was sat on the couch with John and Sherlock. The baby had settled himself into John’s lap, and was nearly dozing off with a sippy-cup of milk in one hand, and a brand-new singing Elsa doll clutched in the other. John finally took the cup and held it for him, once it became apparent that Sherlock just didn’t have the strength...not after a full morning of hard work!

Greg was even beginning to get a little snoozy himself, and had just stretched out on one end of the sofa with his eyes closed for a moments’ rest (and  _ only _ a rest!) when he heard his boyfriend speaking. 

“Oh,” Mycroft said as he finished tying the rubbish bag shut; “We forgot the stockings.”

Greg cracked one eye open. “Oh my God, there’s  _ more _ ?!”

“That’s what he just said, in’nit?” John said with a cheeky grin, without looking up. 

“ ‘ey, you hush.” Greg opened both eyes and pointed at him; “We can still send all your little-boy presents back to Santa too, young man.”

John didn’t reply back, but Greg could see him pinching his lips together in an effort not to smile. Sherlock, however,  _ did _ giggle. 

“The very cheek of-- **_OIF_ ** !” Greg grunted as Mycroft dropped a heavier-than-it-appeared stocking in his lap, narrowly missing his, er, giblets. “Heeeey,” he whinged, giving Mycroft a woeful look as he rubbed his belly. 

“Whingy boys don’t get presents either,” Mycroft said, and nudged his lovers’ feet out of the way so he could situate himself in between Greg and John on the couch. 

“M’not whingy,” Greg...well, whinged, and sat up. He picked up his stocking and rubbed his thumbs over the silver initials embroidered along the rich, emerald green velvet...there  _ was _ something heavy in there, he puzzled. He peered up at Mycroft curiously; “...Where’s yours?” 

Mycroft met his gaze and held steady. “Saving it for later,” he replied coolly. 

Greg narrowed his eyes...something was up, that was for certain. But he didn’t know what. “And theirs…?”

“I’m holding the baby,” John shrugged, nodding to the empty sippy-cup that Sherlock was still suckling on. “And he’s busy being a baby, so…”

Greg’s eyes narrowed even further. “Convenient.” 

“Just open the damn thing, Gregory.”

“I highly doubt Santa would approve of the language,” Greg sniffed, and turned the stocking upside down over his lap. 

Mycroft turned towards John and the two men shared a knowing smile before they both turned their attention back to Greg.

There was a small clatter as several small items that had been sitting on top fell out first; there were several small, travel-sized bottles of cologne and aftershave (a scent that he remembered mentioning to Mycroft that he liked months ago, during a shopping trip...Greg was touched but not at all surprised that Mycroft had remembered), a clear box with a classy-lookin’ tie pin featuring a small, inlaid pearl (his birthstone, a lovely touch), and a new portable charger for his phone (practical  _ and _ needed). All in all, not bad!

And finally, with one last shake, the heaviest, most puzzling item slipped out and fell into his lap.

Greg tilted his head--a hairbrush? Well, it was unusual, sure, but it’s not like he--

Greg picked it up, and paused. Not a hairbrush. 

A  _ paddle _ . 

“Oh, dear,” Mycroft said with barely contained glee that made his false sympathy all the more obnoxious; “It looks as if Santa thought leaving switches was too... _ impersonal _ .”

Greg held it up, feeling the weight of the handle in his palm. Well, no wonder it was surprisingly heavy...the goddamn thing was made of stone! A dark-coloured stone, polished to a mirror-like finish, with three of his initials carved into one side in an elaborate, golden scrawl. 

“Onyx,” Mycroft said as if he knew what Greg had been thinking at that exact moment, biting his bottom lip with a Cheshire Cat smile. “It’s made of Onyx. Very thuddy, but still imparts a terrible sting.”

After a short time that felt longer than it truly was, Greg looked up to find all three of them watching him...even sleepy little Sherlock had perked up for this, with a spark of excitement lighting up his eyes. 

“You...you’re not...” Greg swallowed thickly before he could continue, as his mouth had suddenly gone dry. “You’re not  _ using _ this. On me.”

“I believe that’s exactly what Father Christmas intended, darling,” Mycroft hummed, his gaze resting on the paddle in Gregs’ hand before shifting to meet his. “That little stunt you pulled some months back must have put you on his naughty list.”

“Stunt?” Greg repeated, his brows creasing in confusion. “What stun--oh,  _ God _ ,” he groaned. “Is this still about Halloween??!?”

John answered before Mycroft could. “I mean, that was pretty naughty, if you ask me,” he said, putting Sherlock’s empty cup on the side table. 

“ **No one** asked you,” Greg snapped, glaring at him.

John ignored him in favour of sitting Sherlock up in his lap and talking to him, even though it was still directed at Greg; “Yes it was,” he said to the baby, grinning broadly, and rubbed the tip of his nose against Sherlocks’. “It was soooo naughty! A couple of little boys would have been spanked for that on the spot if they’d done it, yes!”

Sherlock scrunched his nose and giggled as he reached up and cupped Johns’ face in his hands; “Nooooo, no’d me!”

“So, does that mean John’s got one in his stocking, too?” Greg snapped as he stuffed the paddle and all the other little trinkets back inside of his, out of sight. 

John turned, stuck his tongue out at Greg, and made a rude noise that only made Sherlock giggle all the more. “Nope.”

“You played a nasty little prank, too! I was cleanin’ up candy for  _ days _ !”

“Yeah, but Mycroft told me I could do that one.”

“I hel’bed!” Sherlock chirped brightly, sounding awfully happy with himself while John looked on like the proud Papa that he was.

“Yes, I told him he could do that one,” Mycroft repeated to Greg’s gaping face. “Now hand me your stocking, and get over here.”

Greg was still having a little trouble with processing the fact that  _ Mycroft _ had been the one behind Jawns’ contribution to the Halloween festivities because his boyfriend was not, and never had been, one for pranks, because he already had his stocking in hand and was just passing it to Mycroft when he stopped, and pulled it back. “...What?” he asked dumbly, his stomach feeling twisty. 

Not once the entire morning had the smile dropped from Mycrofts’ face, but now there was no longer any humour behind it. “You heard me.”

Greg felt his face flush and his mouth run dry. He knew he wouldn’t say ‘no’--he and Mycroft had had a bit of slap-and-tickle fun before, and he’d been surprised when he found that he’d enjoyed it. This...this was different, though. He highly doubted that this was going to be the ‘fun’ kind of slapping. 

He also knew that he wouldn’t say ‘no’ because, well…

Because he knew that he maybe ( _ okay _ , more than ‘maybe’) deserved it. 

“Gregory…” Mycroft was still holding out his hand for the stocking, and he patted his thigh with the other. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

Greg swallowed thickly and, before he even started to think about making a conscious decision to do it, he realized he was already rolling forward from his slack, laid-back position on the couch to take his place over Mycroft’s lap.

Before he could, though, he stopped. His skin had started to prickle in the fiercely uncomfortable way that it always did when he was being watched...which, of course, he was. By not one, not two, no, not even three!...but  _ four _ pairs of eyes as he finally noticed both John and Sherlock watching over Mycroft’s shoulder. 

The fourth pair being Sherlock’s Elsa doll, but that didn’t stop from adding to the eerie feeling crawling over him. 

“Myc,” he hissed through clenched teeth; “Not with them, please?!”

Mycroft seemed to consider this and, for a second, looked as if he were going to ask them to leave. “Let’s see...John?” he asked.

“Mm?”

“Were you or the baby given the choice to not have Gregory scare you?”

The last glimmer of hope Greg had winked out faster than a candle in the breeze, and he closed his eyes and hung his head in anticipation of John’s answer. 

“Ah, no...no, don’t think we were,” John said as Sherlock added a loud “NO’BE!”

Mycroft gasped; “No?” he repeated, mockingly. “Why, then I think the only fair option is that they get to remain the audience. But,” he added, patting Gregs’ hip ever so softly; “You may want to find a more favorable view.”

“Ah, right.” John grinned broadly as he gave Sherlock a nudge. “C’mon, Bumble, let’s get out of the way.”

“Bu’d, bu’d I wan’ wat’sh!” Sherlock pouted as he begrudgingly, with Elsa and Pooh Bear in tow. 

“You still can, but you wouldn’t be able to see Greg’s bum change colours from there.”

There was a pause before Sherlock giggled. “Ohhhhh, o’gay!” he said, and followed John to the armchair near the fireplace where he resumed his place in his Daddys’ lap. He snuggled down with his new friends hugged to his chest, eyes wide with barely-contained delight. 

_ ‘I hate this _ ,’ Greg thought, his eyes squinched shut tight enough that they were starting to ache. ‘ _ I hate this, I hate this, and I’m doing it anyway.’  _

Being kinky...means having a  _ lot _ of conflicting feelings, he’d come to discover. But now was not the time to focus or get into any deep thinking on that, because now Mycroft had grown tired of waiting and was pulling Greg the rest of the way over his lap. “Wai--wait!” Greg sputtered as his hips came to rest over Mycroft’s thigh...the panic was setting in, now that they were getting to the point they called No Return. Once the trousers or pants (or nappies) came down...that was all she wrote, so to speak. “Can’t we be more reasonable about this?...It was just a little prank! For funsies!” As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew that was a piss-poor excuse

“Hm,” Mycroft hummed, and Greg could hear the muffled shuffling of tiny boxes as Mycroft fished the paddle back out of his stocking. “Reasonable. Alright.” Mycroft paused to take a deep breath; “So,” he continued, “The boys asked for a scary movie. A ‘grown-up’ one. And you put one on for them. Reasonable.”

Greg swallowed thickly--he still hadn’t opened his eyes, either. “Y-yeah,” he agreed, even though he knew damn well that this was still leading to him getting his arse smacked. 

The tips of Mycroft’s fingers trailed along the elastic waistband of Greg’s pajama bottoms. “You got huffy when I questioned the decision. Slightly immature, but reasonable.”

“Mm-hmm,” Greg grunted, while silently cursing himself for not putting on the one pair of pajamas with a drawstring last night.

“Mm-hmm…” Mycroft parroted Greg, then slid his fingers inside the waistband and held them there, waiting. “And then you proceeded to put on a disgustingly cheap, ugly mask for the sole purpose of scaring the shit out of our infants.”

Greg winced; it wasn’t everyday that Mycroft resorted to swearing, but when he did...phew. It hit hard. 

...So to speak.

From across the room came the sound of Sherlock’s nervous, muffled giggling (he too was aware of the brevity that Mycrofts' swearing held), followed by John gently shushing him. 

“...Would you say that was a reasonable course of action, Gregory.” It wasn’t a question. 

Greg took a deep breath, so that his voice wouldn’t shake when he answered. “No, Myc...no, it wasn’t.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Mycroft’s fingers found their way under the elastic band, and with no small amount of determination, yanked Greg’s pajamas down to mid-thigh. 

Greg groaned in spite of himself and, after laying his head on the couch cushion, covered it with his arms. “Myc, please--!” he begged one more time...before being cut off by a loud  **THUNK** !

The shock of the first swat drove the rest of the breath right out of his lungs, and as Greg processed the thud (it was rather like getting punched in the bum with a fist? Moreso than a paddle, in any case) against his backside he had just enough time to think, ‘ _ Well, that’s not so bad… _ ’--right before that burning sensation that Mycroft had been all too pleased to mention, set in. 

Greg sat up on his elbows and rocked to the side, turning his arse away from Mycroft. “OhmyGaaaaaaaw’d!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I can’t, I can’t do this! Not with that Myc, please!” he pleaded.

God, the burn! It was only one swat, but the burning just kept throbbing and spreading, until it felt like the whole cheek was on fire instead of just the one spot!

And he was expected to take a whole spanking with that thing?!?

“If begging doesn’t work for the boys, what makes you think it’s going to work for you?” Mycroft asked him almost sweetly, with a smile to match. Then the smile was gone, and so was the sweetness in his voice. “Back down,” he said in the same tone he used with the boys when they were in Greg’s position, and gently but firmly pressed on his back until Greg was lying flat again. He left his hand there, between his shoulder blades. 

Greg pressed his face into the cushion and tried to brace for the next strike but before he could, the paddle landed on his other cheek, mirroring the first and Christ  _ Alive _ , it was so much worse now that he knew what was coming! 

The third one came before he caught his breath, catching him on the crease right below one bum cheek and making him yelp and reach back before he could stop himself. 

“Ah, no,” Mycroft said, and tapped the paddle against Greg’s thigh. “You know better.”

“I can’t!” Greg wheezed, the air rushing to leave his lungs all at once. He turned his head to try and meet Mycroft’s gaze. “I can’t, I can’t Ican’tIcan’t _ Ican’t! _ ” he begged, his voice cracking. 

Now, Mycroft was not an uncaring man...he did have a heart, after all, and hearing his lover pleading and near frantic sent a pang to it. BUT, Gregory’s attitude had warranted a sore bum for quite some time...Halloween was just the catalyst. As were the days that followed where Greg had moped around all sullen and grumpy because he’d been made to clean up the resulting mess. 

Still...Mycroft was firm (and could be a bit of an arsehole himself; he wasn’t denying that), but he was not a cruel man. Not to his beloved ones, anyway. 

And it  _ was _ Christmas, after all. 

He leaned over to meet Greg’s gaze to see if...no. No, it was obvious that he wasn’t putting on hysterics just to get out of his punishment. “Alright,” he said, taking Greg’s hand away from his backside and holding it. “Alright. You’re getting a few more, because this was  _ richly _ deserved, young man...then we’re done.”

Greg was relieved to hear it, but the relief was short-lived as Mycroft gave his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze...and then started paddling his bum in earnest, to make up for the ‘reduced sentence’. 

As bad as the first few swats were, it was still nothing to the rapid-fire flurry that Mycroft peppered all over his bare backside that had Greg kicking and squealing and twisting like...well, like a child! Because it hurt! And holy  _ shit _ , Mycroft was stronger than he’d ever given him credit for!

You would think, with a paddle like that, that eventually the whole arse would just go numb...but no, oh no... _ God _ , no, he couldn’t be that lucky! Each smack not only brought its own special brand of hellfire, but  **_re_ ** ignited all the previous ones...even though those hadn’t stopped burning yet! 

All at once and without warning, the last bit of resolve that Greg had managed to hang on to left him in the form of a sob as his body gave out and sagged, heavy and limp, over Mycroft’s lap.

In a flash (even faster than he’d wielded it in the first place), Mycroft tossed the paddle aside, and began rubbing his hand up and down Greg’s heaving back. “Shh, it’s done, it’s all done,” he shushed quietly. He cast a glance in John and Sherlocks’ direction, as the peanut gallery had been uncharacteristically quiet the whole time, and...ah, that was why. 

Sherlock, still curled in John’s lap, was clutching his doll to his chest as twin streams of tears trailed down his cheeks and dripped from his pointed little chin. And John, while not outwardly crying, was looking a bit glassy-eyed, as well. 

It made Mycroft smile, despite the sounds of his boyfriends’ snivelling, muffled by the couch cushion. He waited patiently, letting Gregory cry it out while he rubbed his back as well as his back _ side _ , ever so softly. When his breathing slowed and became less hitching, Mycroft gently patted his dusky-pink bottom; “Let’s sit up now, darling...you’re due for a little affection.”

Greg groaned, moving stiffly as he first sat up on his elbows, then eeeeever soooo sloooowly pushed himself off Mycroft’s lap and sat back,  _ gingerly _ , on his throbbing bottom without so much as an attempt to pull his pajamas back up. He winced and, after another loud sniff, wiped his nose with his sleeve. “That...h-hurt,” he told Mycroft, without accusation. 

Mycroft gave him a sympathetic smile; “I know,” he said as he held his arm out for Greg, who gladly (but sloooowly) scooted in for a cuddle. Mycroft kissed the top of his head; “I’m sorry it had to be done.”

Greg’s face scrunched, and he hid it against Mycroft’s chest. “ ‘m s-sorry!”

“Shhhh, I know,” Mycroft cooed, running his fingers through Greg’s mussed hair. “Everything’s forgiven...here,” he said, motioning for John and Sherlock to come join them. “Come here and let our Gregory know how much we love him.”

Sherlock scrambled to climb out of John’s lap (and nearly mashing Johns’ chestnuts in the process), even leaving behind his newly-treasured Elsa doll in the rush to love on his G’eg. “Careful, sweetheart,” Mycroft told him as he wormed his way onto his brothers’ lap, next to Greg. “He’s a bit delicate right now.”

Greg snorted a laugh, which surprised all of them. “Me, ‘delicate’,” he said, looking up with a watery smile on his ruddy cheeks and quickly swiped a hand across his eyes. “S-sure.”

“Everyone is allowed their delicate moments,” Mycroft replied, slipping in a chaste kiss on Greg’s cheek before Sherlock butted in and wrapped him in a huge, teary hug. 

Greg laughed again and returned the hug. “So, you’re not mad at me anymore, m-muffin?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Ne’ber ma’h,” he sniffled into the crook of Greg’s neck. 

Greg swallowed thickly at the lump that had mysteriously appeared in his throat. “I think that’s a fib, but I’m h-happy to hear it. What about you?” he asked, peeking up at John, who was still standing. 

John’s hand was at his mouth, attempting to appear stealthy about pulling his eyes taught to keep from crying. Which wasn’t really working. “Nah, I’m with him,” he said, his voice tight. “I was never mad.”

Greg motioned John over and, when he sat down next to him, wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close, as well. “I really am sorry about that night,” he said again. “You know I love you both.”

“Love you, too,” they both answered back...though Sherlock’s came out as “Y’ub,” followed with some weepy babbling. 

Another minute (or two) went by before Mycroft cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt such a heartfelt moment,” he said (and meant, because he was actually very cozy); “but your tailbone is digging into my thigh,” he added, giving Sherlock a nudge. 

Both Greg and John had a laugh while Sherlock climbed out of his brothers’ lap and stood there, thumb in mouth. “Sh’awry.”

“It’s alright, darling.” Mycroft stood up as well and stretched with a small groan. “It’s time to get ready for lunch.”

Greg took John’s offered hand, hissing as he stood up. “Get ready?...” he asked.

Mycroft took Sherlock’s face in his hand and brushed his hair back before placing a kiss on his forehead. “Yes, I thought it would be a nice change to go out, for once...yes, yes it would!” he cooed at him, making Sherlock smile. 

“But, Myc--” Greg stopped and gave a low whistle as he eased his pajama bottoms back up, making sure to stretch the elastic out and  _ fa _ r away from his sizzling skin. “But I--” he stopped again, and then sighed; “...Somewhere with padded seats, please?” he pleaded. 

Mycroft smirked; “Of course,” he said, turning his little brother towards the stairs and ushering him off with a muffled * _ pop _ * to his pampered bottom. “Then the boys can open their stockings when we get back.”

Greg chuckled as he held the palms of his hands against his arse...the heat emanating from his seat was  _ insane _ . Hell, he could probably restart the fire just by standing near the fucking hearth. “I don’t think I want a stocking next year,” he said, rubbing tenderly. 

“Oh, no?” Mycroft came to a stop on the bottom step, right behind Sherlock. Sherlock, in turn, turned around and called out to John; “Da’yee? E’sa? P’yease??”

“Yeah,” Greg added, scooping up the doll before John could and instantly regretting it as the skin pulled tight, making it throb even moreso. “Yeah, no, next year I’m gonna convert to Judaism.”

“HA, right,” John laughed. “Eight days of getting smacked instead of one, brilliant.”

“Shut. Your. Mouth.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft hummed, turning back and urging Sherlock to keep going with a hand at the small of his back. “There’s still time and two unopened stockings left, young man.”

A shocked silence fell between the three of them as they all looked to Mycroft, mouths agape. 

“Uh, what?” John asked. “Wait, you’re not….not really, did you???”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder and gave John the same sort-of smile that he’d given Greg earlier, as he’d opened his stocking. “...Kidding!” he said brightly, and then laughed. “Kidding, just kidding!”

All three men let out sighs of relief, even Greg...he didn’t think he could go through that again in one day, even if it was just watching this time. 

“...Maybe.”


End file.
